The Best Bad Things

by Katrina Carrasco

“You’re his woman, aren’t you?”

  Nell laughs.

  “Nathaniel and I have worked together for years,” she says. “But Friday was the first time he ever took a … special interest.”

  “Huh.”

  The timing of Wheeler’s pretty guest, his tangled responses to Alma in her various disguises, start to take on a new meaning. He had another woman—a plump, perfumed woman in muslin and lace—when Alma, hard-bodied in her dirty shirt and trousers, would see. Reminding her what he really wanted. Or trying to remind himself.

  “I’ve taken a special interest, too,” Alma says. The apple core is sticky in her hand, a thread of juice tickling its way down one knuckle.

  “But I don’t need a favor from you.” Nell’s eyes glint under lowered lashes. “When I do, I’ll let you know.”

  She leans across the space between them, holding out the empty crockery plate for the apple core. Under the high square collar of her dress her breasts are suggestions of movement. Alma puts down the fruit. Wipes her hand on her kerchief.

  “I have my uses,” she says. “Try me.”

  Nell smiles. Turns her attention back to the papers on her table, the quiet scratching of her pen resuming. The warmth of the brazier has started to dry Alma’s hair, her trousers. The chair is softer than her boardinghouse cot. She props one elbow on the armrest, setting her chin on her fist. Lets her legs sprawl open. Nell’s eyes track over the paper as her long fingers smooth flat the page. The lamplight catches in her golden hair.

  “How did Delphine find you?” Alma says.

  “I found her.” Nell holds up the paper, squints at it against the lamp. “When I first got to town. I was sewing, a little, and between that and some pickpocketing when steamers came in, I did all right.”

  “Never would have figured you as a cutpurse. You’re too pretty.”

  “I’ve rarely found that a disadvantage,” Nell says. “One day on the docks I saw a beautiful woman in a blue cloak. Velvet. Expensive. I got twenty dollars in coin and a gold chain out of her pocket just as she caught me, quick as the dickens, not even looking. Fingers locked around my wrist. She said, ‘Jack be nimble.’ And then turned around and said, ‘Oh! A girl.’”

  “You do her accent well.”

  “I’ve known her four years.”

  “She caught me, too, in a sense,” Alma says, rubbing at the bruise on her jaw; sore nerves over ridged bone. “She’s like that. You can’t get away, and you don’t want to.”

  “Do you love her?”

  “I love the money we make together.” Alma sits up straighter. Runs a hand through her hair, which is stiff with sweat and knotted. The bump at the bottom of her skull finally subsiding. She let herself get far too comfortable, in this snug room, in this quiet company. And that comfort is no accident—with the food, and drink, and flirtation, Nell has quietly encouraged her to talk. The woman knows her business.

  “It’s nice to have a full wallet.” Nell lowers her face to her work, her expression unreadable.

  “I need to see her.” Alma puts on her damp cap. “Can you have her meet me here, tomorrow?”

  “I can try.”

  “I’ll come back for those papers in the morning,” Alma says. “You let me know then.”

  “What happened to your afternoon off?”

  “You’re busy. So I’m going to go hunt up a favor I can offer you.”

  “Next time bring me tuberose,” Nell says, as Alma unbolts the door. “It’s my favorite. Or caramels. The notions shop by the post office sells the sweetest things.”

  On Water Street the sun is already sloping low. Winter days here are shorter than down South, the light in a hurry to die. The notions shop’s window sparkles with rain. Bright bolts of cloth in pinks and blues are stacked behind brass door fixtures, a heaped basket of peppermints, enameled lamps. Playing with fire, that one. When Nell was just a lush bloom in Wheeler’s hallway, in The Captain’s, it was easier to classify her: the sugar dish, a tempting diversion. Now she’s shown the real range of her skills. Flashed her wits, her forger’s talents. Asked for tuberose, the bloom of dangerous pleasure that’s rumored to induce sexual climax with its scent alone. Alma is more tempted than before—oh, the thrill of the challenge—but dancing with Nell calls for some caution. The woman gets Alma talking too easy.

  She stops for a meal at the Adams Street fish market. Hot chowder, rye bread. Takes her time walking along the peeling-clapboard waterfront.

  By the time she arrives at the Quincy warehouse she is soaked through. Sniffling. Her front teeth ache with cold. The building is outlined by purpling eastern sky. CLYDE IMPORTS is stenciled onto the bricks above the door, the letters dimming with the twilight. Benson stands by the entrance, behind the curtain of rain streaming off the eaves to splash knee-high off the plankboards. His head is nearly level with the top of the doorframe. His whistling does not pause as Alma approaches.

  “Pretty fucking happy about standing in the rain,” she says, ducking through the little waterfalls coming off the roof.

  “This is dry, far as I’m concerned.”

  His buckskin jacket is wet, ripe with animal stink. Curls of hair cling to his forehead and ears.

  “You part whale?”

  “Naw. Worked in lumber camps, then on the loading side, in the Sound.”

  He opens the door. Alma follows him into the muffled chill of the warehouse. A sloped ceiling, banded with rafters. Two wall lamps by the entrance. A muted violet glow falls through the barred window at the back of the rectangular space. Stacked crates all around, high as Alma’s chest; scent of damp hay and pinewood. With the rain shut out it is quiet enough to hear the water lapping at the pylons below. There are tiny shifts in gravity as the tide threads through the wharf’s foundations.

  “Got your whiskeys over here.” Benson advances into the warehouse, slapping a neat block of crates marked with customs paperwork, inked stamps, branded distillery seals. “Gin just there. Those are the domestic imports: bourbon, mostly.”

  At the midpoint of the room he rolls a handcart out of the way, lifts oilcloth from another hulking pile. Overhead a flutter of sound: a bird’s nest in the rafters, white flick of wing tips, and a wisp of straw floats down.

  “Here’s a batch of woolens. There’s a drip in the ceiling, so we put out the cloth.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Barker’s in here from time to time,” Benson says. “And Lyle. McManus’s crew, when they cart things in.”

  “Where do you store the fun stuff?”

  “When we keep any back, it gets squirreled away at Madison.”

  “Why?”

  “No tar—ever—in the Quincy warehouse.” Benson pulls the oilcloth back over the crates. “That’s orders from the boss. This is the official Clyde Imports building. The other warehouse, on Madison … it’s not part of Clyde Imports. The boss never goes there. He doesn’t like to be around the tar, you know.”

  “Seems like a good way to not get caught,” Alma says. “And so, what do you do? Just stand around here looking after a bunch of bottles?”

  “Not bad work,” Benson says, either missing her jab or not bothered that she’s called him lazy. “But see, the papers all pass through here. The boss keeps things linked on paper, coded-like, so when we do send something along to Madison, it’s on Clyde Imports’ books. And what doesn’t stop through town, it gets listed, too.”

  “You got some papers I can see?”

  Benson’s boots fall heavy as he walks back to the door, takes down a bound packet ten sheets thick.

  “The special entries all start with two three six,” he says, handing her the papers. “Kept back two cases of the last batch; the rest was all Tacoma-bound. Those are the liquor shipments, the cases of burgundy and the new bourbon—real smooth stuff out of Kentucky—and those are tar, the whiskeys starting two three six, see, you get it?”

  “A value match?” Alma says, scanning the page. Two different hands are on it: the neat sc
ript listing the product details and batch numbers, and rough X marks next to each line, signaling receipt. Wheeler’s work, probably, with those careful numerals, then Benson’s scrawls over the top.

  “Near enough. Everything gets squared away at the office; this is just the paper trail.”

  “I fucking hate paperwork.” Alma flips to the next page. “Makes my toes curl.”

  Benson hooks his thumbs through his belt loops, leans against the solid block of wool crates.

  “Word is you’re from down San Francisco way,” he says.

  “That’s right.”

  “Big city.”

  “Lots of girls there.” She hands back the packet. “I see you favor The Captain’s for your daily dose of skirt.”

  “I like the band. Never could play anything worth a damn, myself.”

  Alma runs her fingers over the crest branded onto the crate beside her. When she looks up, Benson is watching her close, his gray eyes narrowed at her face. She hardens her jaw.

  “What?” she says.

  “You look like someone I used to know,” he says, drawing back a touch and considering her more openly. “Man named Franklin, at the Spokane camp. Damn good faller. He your kin?”

  “I’ve got nobody there, and I don’t recognize the name.”

  “You come all this way alone?” Benson says. “No woman to keep you warm?”

  “Better to travel light.”

  More fluttering above. The birds set up a burbling chirp. Alma taps a cigarette out of her case. The edge of her matchbox is damp. It takes three strikes to get a light going. Benson whistles up at the birds, mimicking their song, and they quiet down. He’s a big man, a thick man; she thinks of the whittled bird he was working on in Wheeler’s office, so tiny in his callused hands. Big, but with precision in those fingers.

  “That clerk, at the beach,” Alma says. “Beckett. That was your work.”

  “Ruined a good jacket. A good pair of pants.” Benson shakes his head when she offers him the cigarette. “Don’t see the need of making a mess like that. But the boss wanted it a certain way.”

  “Did you really almost take his head off?”

  “I got in there,” he says. “Far enough to hit the spine.”

  “God damn.”

  “Now, cutting the tongue out, that made my skin crawl.” Benson’s thick shoulders hitch up. “Never been asked to do that before, and hope I won’t be again.”

  The Beckett setup becomes a little clearer. It was less a snare to keep Alma secure and more a way to distance Wheeler from the murder. Someone, maybe another customhouse man, had to know Wheeler was feuding with Beckett. Maybe there were bystanders when Wheeler bruised his knuckles on Beckett’s teeth. But with the boardinghouse woman as an eyewitness, the collector’s death could be squarely pinned on Jack Camp: a stranger, new in town, capable of unprecedented brutality. Camp is no longer a convenient scapegoat now that Alma and Wheeler are working together—but she suspects Wheeler never meant for that to happen.

  She scratches her jaw, the lit tip of her cigarette ghosting warm along her cheek. Benson’s two-day-old slice in her throat still seeping.

  “Were you meant to come knife me instead?” she says. “The night you got Beckett?”

  Benson nods, his shoulders still up. His posture almost bashful.

  “That was the plan,” he says.

  “But the plan changed.”

  “Lucky for you.” He grins. “Next time we’re both at The Captain’s, come set down and have a drink. We can have a go at that draw poker game you offered. I’ve put Barker and Driscoll off cards—cleaned them out too many times.”

  “Do I look like an easy mark?” Alma sucks down gritty smoke, exhales through a sneer that bares her canines.

  “Hell, Camp, you look like you might knife me, given the chance.” Benson scrubs his thick wrist over his beard. “Just trying to be friendly. I want to hear about San Francisco. Aimed to go there when I first came out West. But I never made it.”

  The nesting birds twitch in the rafters. A white drizzle of shit drops to the ground at Alma’s feet, followed by a slower-floating tuft of straw.

  “I could tell you stories,” she says. “Wicked as you like.”

  She is thinking of Benson’s blade at her neck, again; of his body, hard and eager, trapping hers against the office desk. Bloodlust, or something else. She is thinking of Wheeler’s eyes as the blade bit into her neck, how they narrowed in minute recoil. Wheeler had not been bluffing. He’d planned to pin Beckett’s murder on her and then shut her up for good.

  16

  JANUARY 17, 1887

  Driscoll is on the office stoop again, still flushed with cold but drier now that the storm has blown over. He jumps off the steps. Jostles against Alma, his breath smelling of coffee, his tousled head bent toward hers.

  “Did you see her?” he says, bouncing on the balls of his feet, all worked up.

  “I did.” Alma knocks him back playfully with an elbow.

  “Christmas pudding. Right?”

  “She knew your name,” she says, grinning when Driscoll’s eyes go wide, his chapped lips parting. “She said you were all spit and steel. You’re in with a chance.”

  “No.” He is lit up like a firecracker, cheeks bright, breath rising in rapid puffs into the winter air. “She knew my name?”

  Alma climbs the stairs, slapping his shoulder on the way. He is young, and foolish, and ready to believe anything. Into the hall; around the dogleg the air grows warmer. Wheeler’s door is cracked open, a line of light on the blue wall opposite. She looks for him at the desk, but he is standing by the hearth, where a robust yellow fire roars.

  “Driscoll built it high this morning,” he says.

  His jacket is off, but he has not rolled up his shirtsleeves—not letting his guard down against her. He prods at the fire with a poker, his arm red in the glow.

  “To match his spirits,” Alma says.

  “He’ll temper into a useful man.” Wheeler props the poker against the bricks, wipes his palms with a kerchief.

  “McManus thinks so,” Alma says. “If the kid had been on my crew and let Sloan’s man get so close, I wouldn’t stand at your desk defending him.”

  “I believe you’d throw your comrades into the pit.”

  “Don’t get me wrong.” She shucks her cap. “I like Driscoll. He brings some cheerfulness to the place.”

  “Do you find us otherwise dour? Humorless?”

  “A wee bit.” Alma lapses into full brogue as she hangs her jacket on the rack. “Could be a touch of the Calvinist in you—too many morns spent in the pews, weeping for a barley scone.”

  “That is uncanny.” Wheeler sits in his chair, the leather creaking, and taps his fingers on the desk. “Benson tells me you didn’t bother showing up until sundown.”

  “I was busy.” She switches back to Jack’s voice, pleased that he mentioned her chameleon’s accent.

  “Other important affairs to see to?”

  “Now, come on,” she says, pulling the oilcloth-wrapped packet of papers from her vest and tossing it onto his desk. “I saved you a trip.”

  He picks it up, unwraps the envelope. Inside are the certificates for Ah Tong. Six neat sheets, each stating the bearer’s identity as a returning Chinese merchant and resident of the United States. Wheeler’s brow knots. His eyes track up to hers, slow.

  “Nell sends her best,” she says.

  “Why did she give you these?”

  “I told her I work for Delphine,” Alma says. “She knows she can trust me.”

  “You’re giving that name away like candy.”

  “Only when I need something.”

  “Be careful about it,” Wheeler says.

  Alma slides into her usual seat, the hardwood chair that’s nowhere near as comfortable as the one in Nell’s shop. His admonition irritates her. Mostly because he’s right. Also because the thing for which she traded Delphine’s name—a meeting, brokered by Nell—will not be
happening. During their visit that morning, Nell passed along a message: Delphine is not at liberty to descend into Lower Town today. But Alma is not at liberty to wait around and play second fiddle to Wheeler—not until Delphine clarifies the terms of the promotion Alma’s laboring for. After leaving Nell’s, Alma sent a message of her own to Delphine, asking for a meeting in Upper Town that afternoon, on neutral ground. She will have to wear her maid’s costume again. She is not certain Delphine will show.

  “Don’t tell me how to do my job,” Alma says.

  “I thought that’s exactly what I’m supposed to be doing.” Wheeler turns his attention back to the papers, his posture stiff. He flips through them, examining each sheet, smoothing them down in a pile as he reads.

  “It’s good work,” she says.

  “I have eyes.” He sets the stack to one side of his desk. Leans back in his chair. “While you’ve been out entertaining yourself, I’ve dealt with Edmonds. He won’t interfere again.”

  “What did you do?” Alma is impressed: Wheeler has locked down the customhouse man in two days. That’s fast work for bribery; faster still for blackmail.

  “I found his weak spot,” he says. “They do breed eccentrics out in Missoula.”

  “That’s all you’ll give me?”

  Alma’s temples are beading with sweat. This is the first day she’s left her neck unbandaged, and warm air on the already itchy skin sets it tingling.

  “For now.”

  “Fine,” she says, rolling up her sleeves. Wheeler can be as nice as he wants with his clothing; she would rather be comfortable. “Keep your secrets.”

  His eyes, his mouth, hint at a smile as he returns to his paperwork.

  “Benson told me something curious.” She hooks her right thumb into her belt and taps, slow, on the buckle. “He said you’d had him ready to come knife me, before you decided to send me after Beckett instead.”

  Wheeler lifts one eyebrow in silent question.

  “I didn’t think you’d do it, at first,” she says. “I misread you.”

  “You’ve made other mistakes,” he says. “Don’t be too surprised.”

  And she’s not, sitting there, across from him. He would have had her killed despite his interest because he puts business before pleasure. She is the lunger. She is the one who sees to her hungers first and other considerations after. Wheeler is in the habit of denial, like a man who’s fasted for so long he no longer even looks at bread. But he’s got to eat sometime.